My mail moved on its own and fell on the floor. I am counting the ceiling tiles, the stairs, and the number of black cars that pass by on the highway. I am looking for someone else’s plan.

Back in July, Jodie came by. “I’ll see you again in November.” January at the latest. “I’ve got some baskets I want you to have that you can use for mail and cups or whatever.” But aren’t they antiques? “No, just collectibles.” Did you collect them all? “No, I won them at a fair.” She must’ve received the transmission; well shit, my plastic bags of tacks are from my mother’s second grade classroom.

Ok, fine. Fine, then.

Jodie didn’t come back around. I hadn’t been awaiting her visit, and I only noticed because I remembered what she had promised me. I looked her up online; her husband was still unloading odds and ends, including what she’d set aside for my brother and me. The aquarium with the terrarium set-up. Beth Schnecter had scheduled to pick up the collectible baskets a little after six, two Thursdays ago.

I threw a trash bag of unopened mail in the condo’s dumpster by the road. In the empty halls and cheap extensions of blood relation, there are no real promises. A promise necessitates emotion of those that own the hands that do the shaking. I counted two stained tiles, four chipped stairs, one step left, black pick-up truck.